Abraham finally spoke up, belatedly.
“Form the All‑Pass formation.”
Only then did the frozen members step back from the boy.
Abraham drew his sword and continued speaking.
“Labyrinth Type‑3 for large high‑grade demons. I will take the lead.”
No sooner had he finished than the members moved in perfect unison.
The inquisitors, some fifty strong, surrounded the boy in an instant.
At a glance the loose formation revealed escape gaps here and there.
The boy merely snorted, amused by the sight.
“Interesting. So that’s why they call it a ‘Labyrinth’…”
…
Watching the boy stand still, Abraham’s expression hardened—this formation wouldn’t trigger unless the enemy moved.
It was then.
The boy laughed softly and began to move.
“I’m curious—shall we play along?”
He murmured, then suddenly lunged at one of the inquisitors and swung a fist.
The inquisitor hurriedly blocked, but the sword he held shattered into pieces.
Apophis’s fist struck the aghast man’s face. The men behind him slammed spears and morningstars at the right moments, forcing him to parry.
He shoved them back a few steps, only briefly.
“Hmm?”
Apophis stepped back again, tilting his head as if entertained. Then, as if pointing out a game piece, he indicated a spot and said, “Indeed, the path of life is this way.”
Abraham swallowed an inaudible cry.
The cluster where the most heavily armored inquisitors stood—what to any eye seemed an obvious mistake—was in fact the only exit in the encirclement. Even if they broke through the other flimsy rings, the surrounding lines would shift and form new walls, an endless maze where walls met them wherever they thought the path ended.
That was the true power of the formation.
If the direction Apophis pointed to were breached even once, the whole formation would collapse. Yet Apophis had grasped that at a glance.
“How did you…”
Abraham muttered, his face contorting.
Apophis snickered—an innocent child’s laugh.
“Well, I once saw the primeval maze, so it’s natural. This looks like an imitation of that.”
“…Primeval maze?”
Abraham could not fit the words together.
Apophis continued.
“But this formation is far too limited.”
“What do you mean?”
“It only works against roughly human‑sized opponents. It’s useless against a large foe.”
“There are other formations for facing large demons, though.”
“Oh? You sound confident. Then let’s see it.”
“I’ve warned you already.”
The boy’s smile began to twist into something fierce. Was it an illusion wrought of darkness? Abraham blinked, but the strangeness only accelerated.
With the sound of bones twisting, Apophis’s body began to melt into the darkness—no, absorbed would be more accurate. The void’s blackness, like liquid, was drawn into him; they fused and swelled.
In a moment there was no trace left of the boy’s form.
In the blink of an eye something unidentifiable reared before Abraham and the inquisitors.
Before anyone realized it, the thing had clamped a man in its jaws and chewed him like a biscuit. The man could not even scream; his blood sprayed into the air like rain.
A massive serpent’s head lifted—one that belonged in ancient murals. Dark, blood‑tinted tears flowed from its eyes. Its entire body was sheathed in inky blackness; black ink dripped from skeletal wings. Yet under the moonlight its insides shone through—organs writhed, white bones drifted as if swimming.
It should have been repulsive, but somehow it felt sacred.
A black tongue slid from the serpent’s mouth. Jagged, blood‑stained teeth protruded from its wide jaws.
Above all, it was smiling.
How that was possible, no one knew. A snake had no lips, no crow’s feet, and yet it smiled—clearly looking down at Abraham as if pleased.
Abraham couldn’t blink. The presence pouring from the creature swallowed the surroundings in an instant: overwhelming, awe‑inspiring—an intimidation far beyond any high‑grade demon.
“Super‑class? No—this is…”
Divinity.
A presence belonging only to those who transcend ranks.
Abraham’s face went pale. Why did such a being exist? Why here, in this shabby inn?
He groped for words. “Everyone… deploy formations for large, high‑grade demons…”
But the order died on his lips. What point was issuing formations now? This was…
“Run. Flee.”
He changed his command. Victory was impossible; there was only one option.
“Scatter! Everyone—right now!”
As the trance lifted, their minds sharpened. Abraham shouted urgently, “Retreat!”
“S‑scatter!”
Only then did a few who had regained their senses echo the orders and fall back.
Something fell from the air.
A gigantic black, streamlined trunk—thicker than a log—whipped past. Where it struck, red chunks of flesh were mashed into the earth.
The retreating men’s legs froze as if locked. In the blink of an eye dozens of inquisitors were crushed like flies.
They blinked, unable to believe what unfolded, when a chilling voice slotted into their heads like a carving knife.
[You shall not go.]
The monster’s tongue flicked in the backlight, blotting out the moon. Still smiling as if delighted, it continued.
[It’s so delightful here—where do you think you’re going?]
“Aaaah…”
“Uhh…”
The inquisitors collapsed where they stood; some wept rivers, others soiled themselves and convulsed. Only one fate awaited them.
Death.
The being before them was another shape of death.
“You are… you are… what on earth…?”
Abraham murmured, eyes blackened as if dead.
Absurd. The world had always been like this—the fate allotted to humans, the value of life—lies. Humans, supposedly lords of creation, were worth less than a speck of dust. He had known that truth long ago: mortals were playthings in the palms of gods. So he resolved to struggle, even if it meant licking the toes of gods or trampling others to survive this absurdity.
But what was this…
He let out a hollow laugh.
[Such a wronged expression.]
The monster continued in a cold, deadened tone.
[You ask what I am? I am your sin.]
“What…?”
[I am the punisher of sinners, the voice of the wronged, the recurrence of evil.]
“…”
[I am a being formed from the price of the sins you committed.]
Apophis leaned close to Abraham’s nose and spoke.
[You are evil. I have decided so.]
Abraham could not utter a single word. He only watched Apophis’s widening mouth approach and thought—perhaps there had been another path.
But that was…
Crack. Snap.
A regret far too late.
A group of dolls scampered up the stone mountain path.
Even in the dark they leaped the steep cliffs like mountain goats.
After a moment, the first to reach the cliff’s lip paused.
“…Are you really sure this is alright?”
Ono asked, uneasy, his gaze drifting to the city spread below and the faint vibrations and distant noise.
Hamel, who had led the climb, stopped and answered, “Yes.”
“…”
A typically blunt reply. Ono, taken aback by the curt response, protested in disbelief.
“I mean, however great he was in the old days, now…”
“He’s fine.”
Hamel shook his head, then added calmly, “Apophis has changed from before.”
“Changed?”
“Hasn’t he gained another name?”
When Hamel looked at Apophis again, he felt it—a scale vastly different from before. If they fought him now, Hamel was certain he could not win.
“At least now, even if he fought that lamia, he wouldn’t lose.”
“…He was that strong?”
Ono’s face went pale. He’d said something rude—being perpetually rude was Ono’s specialty.
Apophis was surprisingly generous, so there seemed little cause for worry.
“Anyway. You needn’t worry about the inn.”
Hamel turned and resumed climbing. The marked location on the map was close.
At that moment a familiar stench hit his nose—rotting corpses and charred ash.
The direction matched the mark on their map.
“Let’s hurry.”
Hamel stamped the snow and quickened his step. The stench grew stronger, and his expression grew sterner.
When they arrived at the marked spot, Hamel and the entire party tensed.
Buildings blackened and reduced to ash. Streets slick with blood. Everywhere in the village stood thousands of corpses impaled on stakes.
Hamel recalled his family’s epithet—Țepeș, the Impaler.
“Are all of these… wild men?”
Ono murmured, voice trembling.
Hamel nodded. The architecture and the corpses’ clothing matched the invaders from beyond the eastern mountains—the so‑called wild men—who had apparently settled in a mountain basin.
Though called wild, they were still human. Watching this, Hamel frowned. The impalements spared no age or gender.
“Strange as it is, the corpses look relatively intact… Could it be recent?”
“No.”
Hamel shook his head. Apophis had marked this place on the map; it had been in this state for weeks.
Hamel scooped up the snow piled on the ground.
“Probably because of the cold.”
Perched on the mountain, the basin was covered in perpetual snow; the cold likely slowed decomposition.
“…It would be good to at least bury them.”
“We don’t have time for that, though.”
Daniel and Ono exchanged a brief word, reminding themselves of priorities.
Meanwhile.
“Are you alright, Lena?”
“…Yes.”
Lena nodded nonchalantly but could not hide the saliva she had swallowed. If she salivated at the sight of corpses, there was only one reason.
So she was infected.
Hamel nodded with a hint of regret. Despite Ono’s objections, he had brought Lena for one reason: they needed her magic. High‑ranking vampiric breeds were adept at sorcery. Even if her infection made her seize at night, knowing in advance would make restraining her manageable—bind her in advance.
Lena agreed to Hamel’s conditions as if it were natural, and so she accompanied them.
“Let’s depart now.”
Daniel and Ono prepared to leave, crossing the ruined village. If Apophis was right, Chepesh had passed through here and crossed the eastern mountains; they had to hurry and follow closely.
Hamel abruptly halted.
“Hamel?”
Those walking ahead turned to him with puzzled looks.
A sense of unease crept over him. Why had Chepesh descended into this basin to massacre while crossing the eastern range? More than that—he had led his entire force over the eastern mountains, yet there were no traces of them in this highland of perpetual snow, let alone lower down the mountain.
“Wait a moment.”
Hamel glanced around and said in a low voice, “I need a little time.”
